Chosen for Death (12 page)

I was still wearing the sweater and pants I'd put on last night, but only I knew that. I stuck the apartment keys in my purse, slung it over my shoulder, and went out. Mrs. Bolduc might be away, but her curtain was still twitching. I waved at the window and the twitching stopped. Carrie must have hated being spied on. She probably gave Mrs. Bolduc the finger, and that's why Mrs. B. gave Carrie such bad press.

The big trees along Mountain Street were beginning to show a hint of fall. A few yellow leaves blew along the sidewalk. The air was cool, with a gentle wind that lifted my hair. I turned right onto Main Street and walked down past the shops. The windows were full of attractive clothes in rich fall colors. A sage-green fisherman's sweater that was meant to go with my eyes beckoned, and I vowed to stop and try it on on the way back.

I hadn't thought about where to go, but my feet were leading me to the bar and restaurant where Carrie had worked. Leadbetter's was in the basement of a four-story brick building. It had once been an auto repair shop, but now it was just a large room stripped back to bare brick walls, broken into sections by the occasional waist-high partition or raised platform. Seating in the bar was on old sofas and chairs from Grandma's attic. In the restaurant section, beyond, there were regular tables, and some booths along the wall. On the right, just inside the door, a small stage was cluttered with musician’s paraphernalia.

The bar looked more inviting. I never eat on the sofa at home, because I might spill something. Then I'd have to get it cleaned, and that would be a big hassle. So I eat in my big leather chair, when I bother to eat at all. Then I can wipe the spills right off.

The idea of lunch on someone else's sofa appealed to me. I chose a big faded chintz one off in a corner, plopped down, and waited for someone to notice me. The place wasn't busy, and I didn't wait long. My waitress was heavy, with curly brown hair corralled on top of her head with a bright elastic band. She planted her hands on her hips and looked at me placidly. "You eatin' or just drinkin'?"

"Both."

"Good," she said. "I need some business." She handed me a menu. "Get you somethin' from the bar?"

Drinking in the middle of the day is always a disaster for me, but I could always go back and take a nap, and the place invited drinking. Dark and comforting, with soft rock, the kind you hum along with, in the background. "Do you have Sam Adams?"

"Does a bear..." she began, and stopped herself. "Yeah. Be right back." She turned and walked away. The waitress's uniform was pretty informal. I'd packed a couple of them this morning. She had a white polo shirt with "Leadbetter's" over her large left breast, and a black miniskirt that rustled when she walked. Her legs were thick, but well-shaped, and her moon face had pretty features. She was back in a flash, and slid my Sam Adams, in its tall brown bottle, onto the table. She set a frosty mug down beside it. "The guy who makes this must be getting rich," she said. "Everybody orders it."

I ordered a reuben and fries and a green salad. She bustled off to put in my order. I poured beer into the mug and watched the frosty glaze disappear. The first icy sip tasted so good. I wondered idly if Suzanne had been pleased with the report. Would it be harder or easier being her partner? Sometimes a small change in title can have a big effect on a relationship. But she would have thought of that before she made the offer. Suzanne is not impulsive about business. Now that I wasn't strung out and unable to focus, it made me feel really good to be valued.

The walk had made me thirsty. I finished the beer before the food came. The place was gradually filling up around me, the muted hum of conversation drowning out the music.

My waitress came with the food, set it down in front of me, pulled some silverware and a napkin out of her pocket, and grabbed the empty bottle. "You want another?" She didn't hesitate. She was a good waitress. "Of course you do. Be right back." And she was gone before I could say no. A drink when I'm hungry always makes me ravenous. I attacked the sandwich, oblivious of the sauerkraut seeping between my fingers. It was not disappointing. The meat was lean, the kraut tangy, and there was plenty of dressing to ooze out of the holes in the bread. I licked my fingers delicately.

She came back with the beer and another frosty mug. "Good, isn't it?" she said.

"Great," I said. "May I have another napkin?"

She pulled a stack out of her pocket. "Sure," she said. "I should of thought of that. Don't spill on that couch, now."

"I won't," I said. "Did you know a waitress named Carrie McKusick, who used to work here?"

Her expression stopped being friendly, and became defensive. "She's dead. She got murdered," she said. "Why're you askin'?"

"I was just wondering. She was my sister."

Her whole body projected disbelief. "Yeah, right," she said, "and Twiggy is my sister."

I wasn't offended. I was used to it. She might not be polished, but this girl was refreshingly real. "Carrie was adopted," I said, "so we don't look alike. I came up to clean out the apartment."

Her face turned a deep shade of pink. "I'm sorry," she said, "but you know, people are so curious when someone is murdered. It's real sick. I've waited on a bunch of people who came in here just to ask questions about Carrie. I figured you were one of 'em. Know what I mean?"

I did know. There are always vultures around who can't wait to get the details. There had even been some people like that when David died—casual friends who asked the most outrageous questions while pretending to comfort me. "I know what you mean," I said. "People can be such jerks. Packing up her things depressed me. I felt like talking to someone who knew her." It wasn't quite the truth. What I felt like was talking to someone who might be able to tell me what she'd been up to these last few months. But a little white lie didn't seem like a bad idea.

"It ain't... it's not me you want to talk to, anyway," she said. "I only been workin' here a month. I hardly knew her. She was real sweet to me and all, but we wasn't friends. But she and Lorna"—she pointed toward a tall woman on the other side of the room—"they hung around together. I'll see if she'll talk to you, but don't be too surprised if she don't. People've been bothering her a lot about Carrie. The cops, too." She left to serve someone else, and I finished my lunch. Every bit of it, including the garlic pickle. There's nothing like a brisk walk and a bit of alcohol to stimulate the appetite. And require a trip to the ladies' room.

Years ago, I was in a restaurant in Vermont that had a chalkboard on the wall for people who can't resist writing when they're in the john. I thought it was a brilliant idea. Someone had written, "You don't buy beer in this place, you just rent it." Which was true. I returned the rented Sam Adams to the establishment and went back to my sofa.

The tall waitress, Lorna, was waiting with my check. "Meg says that you're Carrie's sister." Her gray eyes were angry. "Can you prove it?"

I was used to dealing with defensive people. Suzanne and I often had to interview admissions directors and other staff people who were afraid or resentful because the administration had brought in outside consultants. There I knew why they were angry. I didn't have a clue what was going on with Lorna, but I didn't mind humoring her. Maybe it was just what my waitress had suggested—too many people asking questions. I fished around in my bag, pulled out my wallet, and handed her the battered family picture taken when David and I were married. She snatched it out of my hand and studied it. "That's you," she said, "and that's Carrie."

I stood and peered over her shoulder. "And that's our parents. And our brother, Michael. And my husband, David."

She shot a look at my left hand. "You aren't wearing a wedding ring."

"No, I'm not," I said. "I'm a widow."

"Widows are old," she said, coldly. "You're young."

I took back the picture, and the check, which she was still holding. I put the photo back in my wallet, and gave Lorna the check and twenty dollars. I'd done my best. If she still didn't believe me, that was her problem. "I don't know what you're so angry about," I said, "and I'm not waiting around for you to tell me. But I'll tell you what I'm angry about—the job the police are doing finding Carrie's killer. I'd hate to see whoever it was get away with something like this, wouldn't you? I thought maybe her friends might know something that might help. Something I might understand was a clue, even if the police don't, since I knew her so well. But if you're any example, I guess that was a crazy idea. Give the change to Meg." I shut my purse with a snap and headed for the door.

"Carrie said you were tough," Lorna said, coming after me. "I see what she meant. You staying at her place?" I nodded. "I get off at eight. I'll come by then."

Chapter 9

I walked back to Carrie's apartment and went to bed. This time there were no dreams. No one, living or dead, came and asked me to do anything. I slept like a log until someone pounded on the door. I stumbled sleepily downstairs to let Lorna in, excused myself, and went back upstairs to wash my face. When I came down, she was in the kitchen making coffee. She was about my height, and about as thin. There the similarities ended. I like to work hard, and I enjoy being alone, but I also like people and have a generally upbeat attitude. Lorna must have been born angry. Her face was tight and fierce, and she moved things around in the kitchen like even the pans and dishes were her enemies.

"There's no milk," I said.

"I like it black," she said. "There's maybe some of that coffee lightener in the freezer."

"Black is fine," I said, which was a lie. I drink coffee because I'm addicted to the caffeine, but I like it tan and sweet. Right now, though, I didn't want to dwell on coffee; I wanted to get down to business. Lorna wasn't going to be a fun person to spend time with. We carried our cups to the table and sat down, eyeing each other warily. "So, why did you come?" I asked.

"I thought you wanted to talk to me," she said. "That's what Meg told me."

"She told me that you were Carrie's friend," I said. "Were you?"

She shot me an angry look. For a moment, I thought she might walk out, but she controlled herself. "What do you think?"

"You're here," I said. "That tells me something. Otherwise, I have no basis for thinking anything, except that Meg said the two of you hung around together."

"Yeah," she said, "we were friends." She pulled a pack of cigarettes out of her bag. "Mind?" I shook my head. Lorna went to the kitchen and got an ashtray, which told me that she'd been there enough to be familiar with the place. She lit up, drew deeply, and blew the smoke out through her nose. "That's good," she said. "I can't smoke at work. Customers don't like to get their food from a waitress who smells like smoke. That's what Mr. Hoggins says. He's the boss. A real jerk. Carrie tell you about him?"

"She mentioned him. She said work was fun, except when the boss was around, and then it was a drag. I suppose she meant him."

Lorna nodded vigorously. "She did. He didn't like Carrie too much after he tried to hit on her and she shot him down, but he couldn't fire her because his wife liked Carrie a lot. She didn't hold it against Carrie, that Mr. Hoggins went after her, I mean. She's good people. Lily, I mean. Awful name, though, Lily Hoggins, isn't it?" Despite her initial hostility, Lorna seemed to be in the mood to talk. When people want to talk, the best thing to do is shut up and let them.

"Carrie was popular with the customers, too," she said. "She had a real knack for getting them to order all sorts of extra things. Made for some nice, fat tips. She was so little and all, I guess they felt they had to help her out. She'd joke about it in the kitchen. Come in, throw down a big order, and say, 'Gotta take good care of these people, they've just adopted me.' And then she'd say, 'People are always adopting me. They've been doing it ever since I was born.'" Lorna stubbed out the cigarette and lit another one. "I didn't know what she meant, at first. It was a big deal with her, being adopted. But you know that."

Lorna had a funny way of talking. Her words came in spurts, and she spat them out fast, like they tasted bad in her mouth. "Were you her only friend at work?" I asked.

She thought about that. "Probably. After that college girl left. The one who was her roommate. Everyone liked Carrie, but she was kinda secretive. Private. She didn't talk about herself much, except for being funny about the adoption thing. But that was how she spent her time. On her 'search,' as she called it. Searching for her parents. It was so sad. Were your folks mean to her, or what, that she had to go find some other ones?"